GenQ - For the not so straight individual

Jason always had perfect hair.

His hair made my hatred of him totally understandable. Acceptable, if only in my eyes, anyway. Whenever I passed him in the hall, at the centre of his own A-list, I just wanted to scream out loud. Yell at the top of my lungs. Punch him, kick him and then touch his hair. Back him into a corner to ask him how he made it so unnaturally natural.

But I needed to know much more significant things.
Like how did he get all the hairs on his arms to grow in the same direction? How long had it taken to squeeze the bum-crease into his chin? How could he suppress his hard-on when his towel so conveniently & frequently fell to the change room floor? To be picked up, twirled & flicked.

So anyway, when the teams were announced for the End of Year Debate, Jason was selected Captain of the ‘Red Team’ while I was Captain of the ‘Blue Team’.
And the topic? “Love or Money�

Jason’s team got love, and ours got money, literally. $20 bucks each if we won. You see I was in a team with two prime-class nerds, Gordon and Anthony. Teacher’s pet losers spawned by status climbing snobs with far too much money to burn. Anthony’s parent’s also offered to buy us team uniforms, while Gordon’s father did the take-away food offer thing. I had to feel sorry for his Dad, as old as he was. The year before, at his 40th, he’d watched while his wife groped the next-door neighbour on the dance floor. He went home alone to his dog & his whisky bottle.

My father offered advice. “Just imagine the other team naked.� Yeah, that helped, if only he’d known!

We worked hard, refined, defined our argument & resigned ourselves to the, inevitable, loss. We allowed the slaughter to happen. The debate was over before it began. Pretty boys always come first. Appraisals, accolades, obligatory handshakes. Jason’s hand lingered longer in mine. I could feel his pulse.

“Great job mate! Thought you had us there for a while. Hey I gotta fly… got a chick waiting…�

As he squeezed my hand, he unfolded his angelic wings & winked at me, & then he was gone. With wings of scorched leaves he flew, my own narcissistic Icarus. He flowed out the door like honey to the special life that awaited him. I remained & squeezed out two dramatic, self-piteous tears.

Jason was dead three days later. His parent’s graduation present in the form of a too fast car. He’d fuelled it with an excess of alcohol. Remarkably I didn’t cry, although inside my tears were falling like hail.

That was almost 30 years ago, & some mornings I wake up & imagine him stirring beside me.

Sometimes we’re laughing together on a plane.

Sometimes we’re picking a puppy from a litter of perfection.

Sometimes I’m trying to hold the steering wheel while he veers off the road.